Nina LaCour

I stepped in—a stunned and feral stranger—and now I’m someone she knows, and I need to stay that way. For her and for me.

I stepped in—a stunned and feral stranger—and now I’m someone she knows, and I need to stay that way. For her and for me.

I could score myself a bottle of whiskey (though I promised Gramps I wouldn’t) and let it make me glow, let all the room’s edges go soft, let the memories out of their cages.
Maybe I would hear him sing again, if all else went quiet.
But this is what Hannah’s trying to save me from.

If only I had something to take the edge off the loneliness. If only lonely were a more accurate word. It should sound much less pretty. Better to face this now, though, so that it doesn’t take me by surprise later, so that I don’t find myself paralyzed and unable to feel my way back to myself.

There are many ways of being alone. That’s something I know to be true. I breathe in (stars and sky). I breathe out (snow and trees).
There are many ways of being alone, and the last time wasn’t like this.